Age of Consent

by Amanda Brainerd

  The ripples spread across the brackish water. Gulls argued above. She had always wondered if her mother had fallen asleep before sinking under. Or had she held herself beneath the bubbles as the warm bath filled her nose and lungs.

  They were nearing the opposite shore and Mr. Ed touched bottom. As they emerged, dripping, a woman with two children was lugging a cooler onto the beach. The three of them stared at India with incomprehension. A lot of people looked at her that way. India was a strange creature, outside the rhythm of life. Farther down the beach, a man was casting a fishing rod into the surf. Justine and Clay at home, tangled in her mother’s sheets. Her father would be snorting his first line in Palm Beach. Everyone starting their day, going through the motions, trying to distract themselves from the knowledge that someday all would come to an end.

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  “Wakey, wakey,” Deirdre sang, ripping back the chintz curtains. The rings clattered over the rod and daylight streamed into Eve’s Hamptons bedroom.

  “Clay’s on the phone.”

  “Muuh,” Eve said, rolling over.

  “Clayton, sweetie?” Deirdre breathed into the cordless phone. “She’ll have to call you back.” She hung up and tore the covers off her daughter. Eve squinted up at her, goose-pimpled and naked. “What have you done?” her mother hissed.

  “I shaved off my pubic hair.”

  Deirdre looked disgusted. “Why on earth would you do such a thing?”

  “Like everything I do. To piss you off.”

  Deirdre frowned. “You wanted to go out to supper this evening? You’re on thin ice. Sleep tight.”

  As if she weren’t already awake.

  Deirdre slammed the door. Eve lay in bed, recognizing that this was the most dialogue she had exchanged with her mother since getting expelled.

  Eve dialed Clay back, looking up at the ceiling, where striped fabric was draped in folds so that the room resembled a sultan’s tent. Clay’s phone rang and rang. She examined the intrusive tan line on her breasts. If only she were in the south of France, her boobs would be tan too.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, hi, Barbara. It’s Eve Straus. How are you?”

  “Wonderful, how’s the gallery?”

  “Working for Margot’s an incredible experience.”

  “That woman’s a master of commerce.” Coming from Clay’s mother, this was not a compliment. “You might as well work at Brown Brothers with Clayton.”

  There was a miserable silence. Barbara must know that Margot had always wanted to represent her.

  “Is Clayton there?”

  “I’ll check.” There was a receding clatter of clogs.

  Eve scratched her itchy pubic stubble, then stretched out on the sheets under the warm sun. There might have been something dreamy, Brigitte Bardot–esque about lazing in bed nude and talking to a boy on the phone. But it was only Clay.

  “How’s stuff?”

  Clay filled her in on the disaster they had found at the Clarksons’. “Justine insisted on staying over.” Eve envisioned Justine and India in that mansion, the pool, no curfew, no rules, no parents to speak of. India’s house was gorgeous, done by some famous Italian decorator. Fucking hell. Justine’s good fortune was a tape playing in an inexorable loop.

  “Is Barbara driving you over there for a swim?”

  “I’ll use my thumb.”

  She imagined him hitchhiking by the side of the road, the preppy little man-child.

  “Wait!” This might be a chance to see Barbara face-to-face. “My mom can take us. She loves Mr. Clarkson.”

  “He’s in Palm Beach,” Clay said dully.

  Eve wouldn’t tell Deirdre or she’d never get a ride.

  * * *

  —

  Clay answered the Bradleys’ door in an unbuttoned blue Oxford, his eyes puffy.

  Deirdre peered past him. “Hello, dear. Is your mother about?”

  “I’ll see.” He disappeared.

  “This house is so chic.” Deirdre sighed, stepping into the front hall. A floating staircase was enclosed in a cylinder of glass brick, and a metal walkway spanned the living room.

  In the front hall hung a small pencil sketch in a frame. Eve looked closer; it was obviously a Sforza of St. John the Baptist, in ragged fur with his shepherd’s staff. In the corner it said For Philip.

  “Deirdre, forgive me, I didn’t hear your car.” Barbara walked in, tying her hair into a knot. Clay was close behind, holding his bathing suit.

  Deirdre’s cheek grazed Barbara’s.

  Barbara eyed Deirdre’s skimpy tennis outfit.

  “Singles with Bitsy Titman,” Deirdre explained, “and I was supposed to lunch with Keith, but he’s still ill.”

  “Barbara, is this a Sforza?” Eve asked, pointing to the drawing.

  “It is,” Barbara said, walking over to her.

  “It’s not hers,” Clay said in a bitter voice.

  Eve could feel her mother watching her.

  “I was going to swing by his studio today,” Barbara said.

  Eve had not known Barbara and Massimo were friends.

  “Is the Susanna there?”

  “Is he doing one? I’ll see when I arrive,” Barbara replied.

  Barbara slung her purse over her shoulder. “Deirdre, thanks for chauffeuring.” Eve knew luring her to Margot’s gallery was way above her abilities, but she still felt she needed to succeed. She had failed at Griswold but had been given another chance. She was stronger now, more directed.

  “Will you pick Clayton up?” Deirdre asked.

  “He has a thumb. Cheers!” And Barbara swept from the house.

  EIGHT

  Justine gazed around the guest room at the pink reading chair and the bamboo dresser. The wallpaper had a design of tiny curling carnations. Morning sun streamed in through the curtains.

  It had taken her hours to clean up last night, not just the dishes but the kitchen and stove. Had India’s father left the house that way? Even if Cressida and Miles drove her mad with their naïve optimism, at least they took out the garbage.

  Justine got up and walked down the hall to India’s room. The bed was empty, neatly made. Justine paused in front of the black-and-white photograph at the top of the stairs. Aside from the 1960s hairstyle and white go-go boots, the picture could have been India. Same slightly upturned nose and faraway expression.

  Downstairs, Justine tiptoed across a crewel carpet with flowers and leaves that matched the green lacquered hallway. She imagined hundreds of people sipping wine in the large rooms that spread out on both sides. Laughter and lighted cigarettes, the low hum of conversation. It wouldn’t even feel crowded.

  In the living room, Justine ran her finger over a carved lobster on a glass table, realizing it was ivory. She bent to examine a framed photograph of a man wearing sunglasses behind a captain’s wheel, another picture of India in riding habit on a magnificent chestnut horse. Then a third of a few elegant older people who looked like they were dressed for the opera. Grandparents, great-aunts, and great-uncles. The library, a deep red, had a bay window that swelled between fitted bookshelves, full of books on decorated houses and gardening, the kind her parents sneered at. And in the cavernous aubergine dining room hung a massive violet glass chandelier.

  The kitchen still had a faint tinge of rancid garbage. An answering machine beeped angrily on the counter.

  India was sitting on the sofa, staring out at the patio.

  “Look,” she said, pointing.

  Justine followed her gaze. The swimming pool was a spinachy mass of algae.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. The bastard forgot to pay the pool guy.”

  “Who was on the phone?”

  “What phone?” India asked.

  “Th
e one that was ringing. They might have left a message.” She tried not to sound anxious, but it might have been Clay.

  “Machine’s been full for eons.”

  India had managed to make fresh coffee, and Justine poured herself a cup before examining her friend. There was a dark stain spreading beneath India on the sofa, and water pooled beneath her boots.

  “Are you wet?”

  “Went riding.”

  “How did you get wet riding?”

  “We went swimming.”

  Justine sat on a dry part of the sofa. Beyond the slate patio a flat, sunny field stretched off toward dunes. Faint mist hung over the sea.

  “Want to get high?” India asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “It’s awfully early,” India grumbled, getting up.

  Justine followed her into the hall. India’s boots made squelching sounds on the floor.

  It was Eve, looking neat in white terry cloth and silver sandals.

  “Don’t answer the phone or anything,” she said. “Jesus, why are you all wet?”

  “I went swimming with Mr. Ed.”

  Justine could see Clay outside, holding the car door open for Mrs. Straus.

  He came in with Deirdre, who was clad in a tennis skirt that barely covered her ass. The older, tanner version of Eve’s legs.

  “India, dear, don’t you look lovely,” said Deirdre. “Is your father here?”

  “No, in Palm Beach.”

  “What a shame,” Deirdre said lightly. “He always was such a creature of habit.” Justine examined Mrs. Straus to see if she was making a jab at his addictions, but Deirdre’s face was a smiling mask.

  India shook her head, her face equally opaque.

  “We can’t swim,” India said. “Algae from hell.”

  They all stared at her.

  Why did they need to swim here, Justine wondered, when there was an entire ocean right outside?

  “My house?” Clay suggested.

  “Can’t we just walk to the beach?” Justine asked.

  “Nobody goes to the beach,” Eve said.

  Justine felt her face flush.

  After some discussion, they decided to go to Clay’s.

  India ran upstairs to change.

  Mrs. Straus asked for the loo.

  Clay pointed at a door through the library.

  Of course, Justine thought, he’s been here a million times, he and India and everyone else, growing up side by side.

  “I’ll wait in the car,” Eve said.

  Now that they were alone, Clay kissed her. A polite kiss—someone might come in at any moment.

  Suddenly she remembered. “I had a dream about you.”

  “That’s weird, I dreamed about you too. We were in a classroom at Griswold,” he said, “one of the old ones in Meade. You were at the front, maybe you were the teacher or something, and you were wearing a long blue dress. I was taking an exam, but I couldn’t remember anything, even though I studied.”

  “A long blue dress?”

  “You know, flowy.” Clay flapped his arms.

  If he was dreaming about her, then she was still on his mind. As he was on hers.

  “We were in the prop warehouse. It was dark, and this statue thing was breathing in a raggedy kind of way.” Justine realized that had to do with putting India to bed and thinking of how Edie Sedgwick had died. And a phone had been ringing, she recalled, but then she realized it was probably the phone here.

  They were silent, Clay looking down at the carpet.

  “Hey, why don’t people go to the beach?” Justine asked.

  “Salt and sand?”

  Justine imagined licking dried salt off his neck and took a step closer. They were just about to kiss again when Deirdre strode in from the library.

  “I’ll get my bag,” Justine said, backing away and running up the stairs. She grabbed her swimsuit and tore back down.

  In the two minutes she had been gone, India had transformed. She wore small turquoise shorts, a canvas tote hung on one arm. Her hair was combed into a ponytail, and she smelled faintly of perfume.

  She handed Deirdre a small slip of paper. “Maybe another adult can convince him to do something about the pool. I’ve given up.”

  “It seems awfully early to give up on your own father,” Deirdre said as they walked outside. “Just wait till you kids are parents yourselves.”

  * * *

  —

  The air-conditioning hummed in the Mercedes. Every now and then Justine would catch a shellacky waft of Mrs. Straus’s hairspray.

  Justine gazed out the window at the furrows of plowed and planted fields, the tall hedges, the weathered shingle houses fringed with blue hydrangeas. Every blade of grass looked as if it had been cut with nail clippers.

  They slowed behind some traffic in front of a general store.

  “Hey, look!” Eve said, rolling down the window.

  On the shoulder was a beautiful and bare-chested hitchhiker.

  Justine felt a wave of attraction, despite herself.

  “Hey, Bruce!” Eve called.

  Clay stared out the window in the opposite direction.

  This was all Justine’s fault. If only she had told Eve what Bruce had done to her, Eve would never want to see him.

  Bruce waved and jogged toward them.

  “Who is that?” India asked.

  “A fucking asshole,” Justine said.

  “Watch your language in my car,” Deirdre snapped.

  The convertible behind them honked angrily. Deirdre pulled over a few inches. Bruce leaned in Eve’s open window.

  “Mom, India, this is Bruce Underwood,” Eve said.

  “Hi, guys. Any chance you’re headed to East Hampton?”

  “No, I have a tennis date in South.”

  “That’s cool,” said Bruce, tan and gleaming. “I’ll just tag along.”

  “It’s getting awfully lonely up here,” Deirdre said, patting the seat. Bruce slid in and closed the door. “Where’s your shirt?” Deirdre asked.

  “Right here,” Bruce said, pointing at something tucked under his belt. “Helps hitchhiking.”

  “Your parents know?” Deirdre asked, pulling a few inches forward.

  “Nah, they’re in Woodside, California.”

  “Do you know the Byerlys?” Deirdre asked.

  “Sienna’s parents?”

  “Yes!” Mrs. Straus beamed, telling Bruce how Mr. Byerly and Eve’s father went to business school together.

  That’s another thing about being rich, Justine thought. You had a buddy in every port.

  “Know what we call her?” Bruce continued, looking right at Justine.

  “Sounds like he’ll tell us anyway,” India murmured.

  “Bruce Underwood, meet India Clarkson,” Eve said.

  “Charmed,” Bruce said, looking anything but. “I’ll tell you about Sienna later. A real team player, if you know what I mean.”

  “Mom, pull over and boot him out,” Eve said. Justine hoped she wasn’t joking.

  “I don’t take orders,” Deirdre said, “and he’s no worse than the rest of you.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Straus.” Bruce grinned. “Clay, should we pick up a case of brewskis?”

  Clay shrugged.

  “Last time I checked, all of you were underage,” Deirdre said.

  “We all have fake ID, Mrs. Straus,” Bruce said, flashing her his most charming smile.

  “As Dino says, it’s always five o’clock somewhere,” Eve said.

  NINE

  “Home sweet home,” Clay said, as they entered his house.

  Cressida would go apeshit with joy over this place, Justine thought, looking at the bleached floors and track lighting. Wi
th its curved flanks of gray wood and bubble-shaped windows, it reminded her of Yellow Submarine.

  “This way,” Clay said to Bruce. “Eve, you guys can use the guest room.”

  The boys headed upstairs.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” Justine asked. She could smell Barbara’s patchouli.

  “Follow me.” India led them down a hall past a few framed ink drawings.

  The guest room was empty. Twin beds stretched their narrow frames under a portrait of Clay as a young boy, clearly by Barbara. He was shirtless, in a pair of shorts, his dark hair long, and he was holding a stuffed white rabbit. Behind him was a window with a view of distant hills, a Tuscan landscape. He must have been about ten.

  Eve came in wearing a tiny black bikini.

  They stood and looked at the portrait.

  “I feel like it was just a few seconds ago that Barbara painted that,” Eve said.

  Justine longed to have known him then.

  * * *

  —

  Clay was swimming underwater, his shadow reflected on the bottom. He surfaced and tossed a flip of black hair out of his face. They looked at each other, and Justine wondered when she would get him alone. Bruce came through the sliding doors in madras trunks slung low on his hips.

  “Don’t tell me those are yours,” Eve said to Clay.

  “Philip’s,” Clay said, still looking at Justine. She realized he had never seen her in a bathing suit and wondered what he was thinking; Clay often looked at her with admiration, but never with lust. She knew the hungry look well, and it was not on Clay’s face.

  “He still has clothes here?” Eve asked.

  “His crap is everywhere,” Clay said, frowning and pushing off the side.

  Even though no parents were present, they were always lurking around in spirit.

  Justine could feel Bruce checking her out and avoided meeting his eye.

  Bruce dove, arcing up, then plunging down into the pool. He swam up behind Clay and splashed him with a muscled arm. Clay whipped around and splashed him back.